


Postcards from Kandahar

by erebones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Modification, Comeplay, Erotica, First Time, Foreskin Play, M/M, Pornography, Uncircumcised Penis, penis jewelry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock believes John is straight until he finds hidden postcards tucked away in a box under his bed—explicitly homosexual postcards. Inspired by 'The Postcards' by shouldbeover, belonging to The Man No One Liked 'verse. A very belated but well-meant Secret Santa gift for iamjohnlocked4life~</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postcards from Kandahar

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Postcards](https://archiveofourown.org/works/572948) by [shouldbeover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldbeover/pseuds/shouldbeover). 



> I am so, so, so sorry this is so painfully late! I hope you had a very merry Christmas, and I hope you enjoy this! I certainly had fun writing it.

Pub night. Downstairs, the door snicked shut and the heavy old bolt was pushed into place. Sherlock rolled off the couch—catching his feet on the trailing end of his dressing gown—and padded to the window. Through the cloaking mist of a rainy London evening, John Watson trudged away from 221B with his collar up and his shoulders hunched against the weather. He looked miserable, Sherlock thought, dropping the curtain. But it was the first time John had made a move to socialize outside their immediate circle since Mary… left. Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to protest.

Sherlock hadn’t been alone in the flat for some time now. Five weeks since John had moved back in, jobless, wifeless, and achingly, glaringly childless. Of all the rest of it, it was that particular betrayal that had struck John most deeply. He’d grown used to forgiving and forgetting the various range of sociopaths in his life, but the promise of offspring unfulfilled had been a new blow.

The resulting fallout had seen John barricade himself within the walls of the flat—and, often, his room—keeping well away from the outside world as he came to terms with the wreckage of his life. Sherlock saw little of him, at first, but there was always the subtle feel of another person in the flat: the creak of floorboards over his head, the shower running unexpectedly in the middle of the night, the dirty dishes in the sink when Sherlock returned from a consultation. He wasn’t accustomed to playing housekeeper, but somehow he’d found himself falling easily into that role. He orbited around John, a silent planet weighed with grief and old longings slowly circling a white dwarf—small, cold, and harboring a lifetime of pent-up rage in its depths.

Sherlock broke away from the window and his maudlin thoughts, pacing back to the couch. Then he paused. John was out of the house. He would likely not have an opportunity like this for quite some time. The first time around, when John had first moved in with a meagre duffle bag and two boxes, Sherlock had made a habit of cataloguing all of the man’s detritus and the slow collection of _stuff_ as a measure of John’s happiness. He'd been meaning to start afresh, but it was difficult with John always underfoot. If he didn’t establish a baseline now, any future data he collected would be faulty.

The stairs creaked ominously as he crept up to the second floor in darkness. His fingers trailed against the wall, feeling the minute bumps and imperfections in the ancient paper, and then stopped as he reached the top landing. His heart was loud in his ears—he wasn’t nervous (no reason to be nervous, mind over matter, he used to do this _all the time_ ), but it still felt like a small animal was sitting on his chest, weighing down his breaths. With a quick motion, he flicked his dressing gown behind him and stalked into John’s bedroom.

It was lit a faint orange from the muted blaze of London at night, looking stark and barren. John’s duffle was pushed up against the end of his bed (neatly made), and his dresser looked forlorn against the opposite wall, the only other piece of furniture in the room. Sherlock hesitated, then hit the light switch. The soft orange was overwhelmed by the harsh glare of the halogen bulb overhead, still bare after Sherlock had requisitioned it months ago for an experiment.

His eyes roved over the room: bare wooden floor stained dark with age, walls bleached a ghastly bone white by the light, the tiny cot of a bed with its corners so crisp they looked carved from stone. There was nothing to break the line of the duvet falling perfectly to the floor—almost nothing. Sherlock prowled around the bed, eyes riveted on the slip of cardboard that dented the line of the fabric. He hunkered down and lifted the duvet with a light hand, cautious of rumpling the bed even the slightest bit. John was more perceptive than he gave himself credit for.

With his curls brushing the floor, Sherlock edged under the bed until he could peer into the box. It was open, as if John had been getting into it recently. Using the barest tip of a finger, careful not to leave more than a sliver of a fingerprint, he drew it out into the light.

There was no hiding the contents, no misinterpreting it. Sherlock's heart was immediately in his mouth, and his hands trembled at the edges of the box as he stared into it, hardly daring to believe his eyes. But it was real. Impossibly, incredibly,  _perfectly_ real: a pile of postcards, of the novelty sort one might find in seedy porn shops or off-beat sex toy boutiques harking back to the vintage eras of illegal homosexuality. They looked old, the color somewhat faded or yellowed, and the edges buffed and crinkled by frequent traveling (and even more frequent handling, Sherlock very carefully did not think about). They were of men—men singly, or two or three together, half-dressed or not at all, their skin bare and smooth and gleaming with oil. A few could be passed off as tame, with jeans riding low on chiseled hips, or the curve of a bicep not quite hiding a nut-brown nipple. The rest were far from it.

Sherlock finally remembered to take a breath, and spots colored his vision as he panted quick as a bird caught midflight. Forgetting entirely about fingerprints, he picked up one by the edges and peered into its yellow-saturated depths. The subject was stocky and well-muscled, with sandy-dark hair and deep green eyes that bored out of a brown, Afghani face. The sweeping sand that cradling his naked body was artfully swirled as if he’d been freshly tumbled. The flush that reddened his dark skin certainly suggested that the tide of orgasm had just passed, leaving him wide-eyed and vulnerable in the middle of the desert. His legs were parted, and he was completely naked; the only saving grace was his arm draped casually along his side, hand on inner thigh so that his wrist just hid the curve of his prick but not the heavy sag of his balls, dusted with fine hair.

A choked sound escaped him and Sherlock sat back on his heels. He was still breathless, and now red-faced and terrifically hard inside his pajama bottoms. Looking down, he could see them tenting impressively away from his body, and the little spot of pre-ejaculate darkening the front.

"Fuck," he said to himself, very quietly. He shuddered and succumbed. One hand pressed between his legs, too eager to bother reaching inside; the other fished around in the box, browsing through John's illicit collection. Men with their heads thrown back, exposing their throats; men with their genitals bulging in too-tight briefs; men with their pricks out, brazenly staring down the camera as they wanked themselves off. The pleasure signals crowded Sherlock's brain until he couldn't even hear himself thinking:  _not straight, not straight, not straight_ , shouting it over every memory of John's stumbling protests.

Someone cleared their throat and time staggered to a halt, along with Sherlock's hand stuffed between his legs. 

John stood in the doorway, beet-red, a Tesco's bag swinging from one hand. In the five seconds Sherlock had before shame forced him to look away, he saw that John had passed on the pub night at the last minute, stopping by the shops for a few personal items instead. His mind stuttered on that last as he looked at the floor. There was definitely lube in that bag, the seal was visible where it pressed against the thin plastic.

"Sherlock--"

"Not gay."

John's awkward overture screeched to a near-audible halt. "What?"

"Not. Gay." The words gritted out between Sherlock's teeth like sandpaper, each words enunciated so clearly he thought he might have sliced his tongue on them. 

John licked his lips. "I'm not. It's called b-bisexual, Sherlock." His stumble put a slight damper on Sherlock's unexpected flare of betrayal, but the burn in his gut was still there.

Sherlock's erection had wilted slightly, just enough that he felt safe standing up and wrapping his dressing gown tightly around his whipcord frame. "And you never thought I might like to know that. Or was I not good enough of a  _best friend_?"

"I thought you  _knew_!" John exclaimed, incredulous now. He blocked Sherlock's attempt at sweeping out neatly, not giving way when Sherlock nearly trod on him. "I thought it was bleeding obvious every time I looked at you."

Sherlock felt his throat close up. He tried to speak, to make some sort of sound, but John's direct gaze and defiant chin had rendered him mute. John's glare softened, and he touched Sherlock's elbow--even that slight contact set a prickle back under his skin. 

"You really had no idea?"

"You only ever dated women, John."

John's mouth twitched. "Guess I'm a better secret-keeper than I thought." His touch had firmed on Sherlock's arm, melting into a warm hold that Sherlock was sinking into far too easily. "Liked what you saw, then?"

For a split second, Sherlock had no idea what he was talking about. Then the memory washed over him, along with a flush of heat in his face and thighs. He plucked at his dressing gown distractedly. "Yes. It... it surprised me."

"D'you have a favorite?" John's eyes twinkled, casual enough for _we're-just-best-mates_  except for the heat of his fingers and the smell of him, fabric softener and tea and London's damp. "I know I do."

At John's coaxing, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, his knees awkwardly together and his dressing gown bunched around his thighs. John dumped the box onto the bed in one go, ignoring Sherlock's wince as the postcards tumbled onto the duvet. Sherlock's eyes fell immediately to the one to fall face-up beside his knee: the chiseled Afghan man with a young face and old eyes. Eyes like John's. "This one," he whispered, tracing the photo's edge with a shaking finger.

"Mm, yeah. Bit shy though, isn't he?" John said into his ear, his weight dipping the mattress so that Sherlock slid neatly against him. "Covering himself up like that."

Sherlock licked his lips, panted a bit as John's breath teased his neck, as he reached low across Sherlock's lap to fumble with a card turned face-down. When John flipped it around for them to see, Sherlock couldn't quite stifle a sound of pleasure in the back of his throat. The postcard featured two men on a hot white veranda, the sun illuminating every curve and muscle's hard edge. The taller of the two, lithe and paper-white, sprawled against a collection of opulent pillows with his thighs brashly parted, revealing a generous penis nestled plump and half-hard against his hip. Above him, a golden-skinned Adonis was perched on hands and knees, posed just so for the camera to show off his best assets: a deeply curved back leading into a rounded backside and a fully-hard prick thrusting into the open air between them. A small silver ring glittered in the sun right where the frenulum drew back from the plump, glistening head, and Sherlock dug his fingers into his own thigh to keep from groaning out loud.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" John murmured. He put his free hand over Sherlock's, soothing his grip, gentling his legs apart. 

"I've never seen... in real life, I mean." Sherlock's finger traced that perfectly jutting penis with its subtle piece of jewelry. "It must feel strange, being penetrated by someone with, erm, hardware."

"It's interesting, I've been told." John's fingers massaged Sherlock's inner thigh warmly. "The women don't notice it so much, but the men..."

Sherlock's mouth had never felt drier. "You mean you..."

"Yeah." John looked almost embarrassed. "When I was a stupid kid. But I don't regret it." His teeth flashed, teasing. "Did you want to see?"

Sherlock nodded, unable to speak as John rose from the bed and opened his flies. He must be large anyway--or so Sherlock had deduced from the manner of John's walk and the occasional subtle adjustment required when they were about the flat together--but now he was visibly hard in his pants, the white briefs straining around his girth. Sherlock could plainly see the tiny swell where the steel hoop pushed against the fabric. Then John hooked his thumbs in the waistband and pushed down. His prick bobbed free, sinking slightly with its own weight, and Sherlock's gaze was drawn as if by a magnet to the twinkle of the hoop there. 

John cleared his throat. "You can touch, if you want."

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. He reached out and brushed the warm metal with his fingertips. John sighed. He played with the hoop gently, fingers slipping in pre-come, and rolled his thumb around the head until John was distinctly red in the face and puffing quick breaths that pushed his ribcage out endearingly. "Come closer," Sherlock whispered. When John was close enough, he leaned forward and rested his tongue against the little hoop.

"Oh, fuck." John sighed it like it was more prayer than curse, and fondled his fingers through Sherlock's unruly hair. "Feels amazing."

Sherlock had given a blowjob once. It hadn't been awful, but his partner had been overzealous, and Sherlock hadn't enjoyed himself all that much. This was a world of difference. Every sigh and gasp from John was a jolt of pleasure through his own veins. The play of hard metal against smooth, yielding flesh was mesmerizing. Soon he was playing with John's foreskin with one hand and holding his hip steady with the other as his tongue worked frantically, looping and slurping and mouthing all over that sweet, plump head and under the corona. John didn't seem to mind the lack of rhythm or sucking; he was content to grip Sherlock's hair lightly and mutter curses at the floor as he watched, riveted on Sherlock's pink, worshiping tongue. 

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," John groaned, just when Sherlock's jaw was beginning to tire. "Lie back, love."

Sherlock suckled the ring into his mouth one more time and flopped back, unashamed now of the tent in his pajamas. John palmed it as he clambered over Sherlock, rolling the clothed prick in his hand until Sherlock was making aborted thrusts into his grip.

"Go ahead," John panted. "Touch yourself." He leaned down and smeared a wet, uncoordinated kiss over Sherlock's mouth and sat back up, knees bracketing his ribcage. Sherlock could feel a few of the postcards crinkling under his back as John jacked himself rapidly, foreskin covering the head and retracting again so quickly the ring was a little silver blur at the head of his cock. Sherlock couldn't quite reach himself comfortably, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He arched his head back, mouth open, and when John jerked forward with a cry Sherlock's tongue was there to catch most of the mess.

"You are... astounding." John's chest heaved with every breath, still hiding under his shirt. "Jesus fuck." His thumb ran along Sherlock's bottom lip, catching a stray drop of come and coating Sherlock's tongue with it. "Can I touch you now? Can I suck you?"

Sherlock's answering whine was embarrassing only until John's hand found his prick.Through the clinging silk of his pajama bottoms, John's clever fingers played with Sherlock until he was begging, and then squeezed and pulled at him with such finesse that Sherlock's back arched off the bed as he came in his pants, wave after wave of it wracking his body until it seemed his insides had passed through his urethra, leaving him hollow.

When he came back to himself, it was to John--clean-fingered, now--picking through the postcards. He was smiling faintly as he lifted one to admire, then put it in the box and reached for the next. 

"Are you angry with me?" Sherlock wondered aloud.

John snorted. "I should be, you berk. Snooping through my stuff." Warm blue eyes flicked to his before Sherlock could grow too anxious. "This time I think I can forgive you."


End file.
